


Bridge to Cross

by firedup



Series: Driving Towards the Daylight [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst level: Hanzo, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hanzo is a fucked-up mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, UST, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, it's not their fault they have no idea what they're doing, not our bois don't worry, or attempts thereat, so is jesse, they're trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firedup/pseuds/firedup
Summary: My spirit is bent and there's blood on my handsThe more I'm down, the less I understandOnce so found, now so lostI ask no questions, it's just one more bridge to crossAll is black and whiteWouldn't change even if I couldI'll take what I'm handedWhether it's damned or if it's good(Black Label Society/Bridge to Cross)[Second half of the fic deleted because I hated it and hopefully to be rewritten. Keep your fingers crossed!]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This damn thing fought me beginning to end (aside from going in a completely different direction from what I was aiming for) and I'm still not quite happy with it, but it can only get worse by me poking at it, so have some UST. Also, I suck at describing environments. BIG time.

_You know you've been doing a good job at vigilante justice if your enemies set up a trap for you._

 

And Holy Cow, Mother of Cheese, they must've _really_ pissed those freaks at Talon off. Jesse has yet to spot one of their high-profile operatives, but getting dead by being smothered under a mountain of gunfodder is still getting dead, and he would rather like to like to avoid that, if possible.

 

"How you holdin' up on your end?", he pants into his comm as he ducks and weaves his way from cover to cover, evenly distributing lead among the nice guys and gals with the pretty helmets. So far, he's managed to not be there when anyone comes looking for the guy who just shot their colleagues in the back. He wonders when his luck is going to run out.

 

"Been nice knowing you.", Genji's voice comes back, as sardonic as it is synthetic. With it come the sounds of battle, echoing strangely now that he hears them directly in his ears as well as in front of him.

 

"I can still turn 'round, luvs!". Lena sounds worried, but there's no din of any kind of fight accompanying her words.

 

"No!", in stereo, both Jesse and Genji at the same time. "You get the data outta here, and don't you dare come back! We'll manage!".

 

"Aye, aye, sir!". Jesse knows how much that costs her, knows what it means when she reverts to military expressions, and hopes to hell that he hasn't just lied to her.

 

"Jesse.". Genji again, and even through all the noise and the cyborg's heavy breathing he can hear the fear there, "I've lost visual on Hanzo, can you see him?".

 

 _Shit._  "Not right now. Gonna keep an eye out.".

 

"Thank you.".

 

Well, that's bad. Hanzo's cover fire has kept more than one team member alive on more than one occasion, and while he might not be too happy about working with them, he's dead reliable in the field. If he's not at his post, something has happened.

 

Jesse tries not to let the vision of Hanzo lying broken somewhere on the floor of this fuckin' huge factory building crowd into his mind. Not the time, dammit! He also tries not to think about what that would do to Genji and plods on doggedly, now doubly alert. There's no plan, he's playing it by ear, as he does, using the environment to his advantage to create distractions and take as many Talon agents out as he can. They're on edge knowing he's there, knowing he's eluding their efforts to kill him, and that suits him pretty well. It makes them too eager when they catch sight of a flash of red, eager and blind to the slapdash traps he manages to set up.

 

He's just dumped a truckload of damaged Omnic parts on the heads of a group pursuing him when he, in his turn, catches sight of a flash of color. Only in this case, it's blue.

 

His heart does the whole forget-a-beat-then-make-up-for-it-by-suddenly-going-a-mile-a-minute-routine and he -almost- breaks into a run. Almost, because his brain catches up just in time to prevent him from making the same mistake the Talon gunfodder did. So what he does instead is sidle up to the parked truck behind which he saw the brief movement and peer cautiously around the hood; and then thank God that he didn't come bursting out into the open like the fuckin' cavalry, because who he finds standing in the open space beyond is none other than the Reaper himself. A thought nudges him in the brain. Something about the way the black-clad, hooded figure holds himself is awfully familiar and if he had a second to think he might be able to place it- which he doesn't, because facing Reaper is none other than their missing archer. Hanzo is visibly exhausted, bloodied, and holding his bow like a melee weapon; he must have run out of arrows. Teeth bared, he's staring at his opponent with the grim determination of a man who knows that the only option he's got left is to set the price for his own life.

 

That's the moment Jesse stops thinking. He can feel the skull behind his right eye grow hot, distantly, as if it were happening to another person, because his mind is taken up with the sudden rush of anger and _hate_  at this edgy black motherfucker who dares to threaten a teammate. He's used the power of the eye once before today, he knows it's not a good idea to do it twice, but he's not the one calling the shots here; that's the sudden, visceral _need_  to _protect_.

 

He steps around the truck, revolver at the ready, and empties the whole cylinder into Reaper's back and head. The figure twitches, stumbles and falls to his knees with very little ceremony, and Jesse skirts around the crumpled heap carefully while reloading on autopilot, keeps Peacekeeper aimed at it even when he reaches Hanzo. Any normal person would be dead after taking six bullets at less than ten meters range, but he's heard rumors according to which the Reaper is anything but normal and anyway, never hurts to be careful.

 

"You hurt?".

 

"Nothing vital.".

 

"Good. Your comm?".

 

"Damaged."

 

"Figured. Your brother was worryin'. Now let's get the fuck outta here. Genji-", he adds, speaking into his comm once again while Hanzo hurriedly gathers up what arrows he can find in the near vicinity and picks up a pistol off of one Talon soldier for good measure, "Found'm, he's upright.".

 

Something in Japanese comes back over the line, a curse or a blessing, Jesse really can't tell. He's only sorry that Hanzo's comm isn't working. Might do him good to hear the tone in his brother's voice, the sheer relief there might just drive home a few things. Oh well. Nothing for it. "How we lookin'?".

 

"There's less resistance than there was before, if you can make it to our position we could make a break for it.".

 

"Got it. See ya 'round.". He closes the line and turns to Hanzo, who's watching the environs with an arrow again nocked and ready. "Let's go find the others. We'll try an' break through.".

 

" _Hai_.".

 

Before they finally make a run for it, there's a moment, just a second, when their eyes meet. Hanzo's hold the same determination he saw there earlier, but this time, it's turned toward surviving. Jesse almost pities the next person to come between him and that goal.

 

He kinda wonders what Hanzo sees in his.

 

.

 

The night after a mission, it's always a toss-up if he'll be able to sleep. He may drop onto any marginally soft, marginally horizontal surface and be out like a light from sheer exhaustion. Or he may rotate in his bed not unlike the way his pop is likely rotating in his grave over what his son made of himself. Or he may gasp awake from a blood-drenched hell of a nightmare.

 

The chances of the latter happening improve with every time he used the eye.

 

He used it thrice today, in the end, which means-

 

"Mother. _Fucker_.". Jesse rolls onto his back, pressing his hands to his eyes as if that would squeeze the images out somehow. You'd think he would have gotten used to hellscapes made up of blood-drenched sand and rocks, a red sun weeping blood, corpses under his feet everywhere he steps, by this time. But no- somehow, the most recent one is always the worst he's had yet, and _this_  one featured Reaper's skull-like mask, red trickling from both eyeholes while it followed him around like the world's creepiest puppy. Every time he'd turned around in that dream, there it'd been. And it kept moaning, sounds that might almost have been words, might almost have been his name.

 

That was what had finally woken him, shaking with the kind of dread that goes bone-deep.

 

It didn't go away on waking, neither. If it weren't completely ridiculous, Jesse would take his gun and comb all over his room just to make sure that friggin' mask isn't hiding somewhere, because it sure feels like it followed him all the way out of his dream and into the real world. He doesn't, because it _is_  ridiculous, but he does turn on the bedside lamp, then lies there letting the small pool of light calm his nerves until his neck stops prickling. He's still on edge, but not as likely to jump out his his skin at the slightest provocation.

 

Another kind of horror entirely is the look at his alarm clock. 4:34, which means he's been asleep for less than two hours. And seeing as he's never been able to go back to sleep after a nightmare of the Deadeye variety (or willing to try, for that matter), this also means that's it, that's all the sleep he's _going_  to get.

 

Grumbling curses under his breath, he scrubs at his weary eyes before finally screwing himself up to getting out of bed. Might as well start the day instead of lying there stupidly staring into the semi-darkness. Winston's going to want a report on that mission... isn't he looking forward to writing that monster.

 

But, first things first. Get dressed, grab smokes, head down to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee... and, huh. "Meet Hanzo on the way", wasn't on his list, but it seems it is now. Genji's brother looks just as tired as Jesse feels, even though he did get in a little more sleep by dint of passing out on the ride back. A first, that, but then, he's never had to summon his dragons twice in one day, either. He's also wearing what Jesse now knows to be his everyday attire- guy seems to own only two sets of clothes, the traditional battle-gear and a much more unassuming baggy-jeans-sneakers-hoodie combination that's seen a lot of wear and doesn't suit him at all. That stern face, the meticulously kept beard and the dusting of grey at his temples call for something a lot more distinguished and Jesse is spending way too much thought on Shimada sr.'s looks.

 

"Uh. Hi.". _Real smooth, cowboy._  Jesse barely resists the urge to slap a hand to his face (the metal one). Then again, it's half-past four in the morning, nobody can rightly expect him to be smooth at this time of the day.

 

Hanzo nods, slows in his walk back toward the room that has been appointed for his use whenever he's on base, comes to stand two steps in front of Jesse. His eyes are suddenly a lot sharper. Jesse's neck starts prickling again.

 

"I owe you thanks.", Hanzo starts without preamble. His voice is low, a bit rough, probably the after-effects of sleep. "You saved my life today.". Even now, he's still got that royalty thing going, posture effortlessly upright and looking straight at Jesse with a sort of proud humility. Not a thing that should be possible. Trust Hanzo Shimada to pull it off anyway.

 

It's a scene out of one of those horrid romance novels Reyes so liked to read. Next up should be Hanzo approaching him timidly to press a gratitude-filled kiss to his lips, and after a few minutes of gentle kisses and whispered nothings, pull Jesse into his room, and so on.

 

 _Not_  bloody likely.

 

He _might_  get dragged in by his collar and shoved up against a wall, though. Or he could just end up following that magnetism that Hanzo seems to possess. Those fuckin' eyes. To use a cliché out of one of Reyes' romance novels: He could just up and drown in them.

 

"Well... technically... it was yesterday.". Shifting his weight to one leg, Jesse hooks his thumbs behind his belt and drags up one of his lopsided smiles. Think of Genji, he reminds himself. You can't keep doing that. 's gonna end in a mess. A bloody one, worst case scenario.

 

Hanzo scoffs at his dumb act, but, lo and behold, one corner of his mouth does tick up. So he's not immune to humor.

 

"I thank you for my life and you're going to argue semantics?".

 

"Hey, can't be getting imprecise, now.". He wags a finger side-to-side, then adds, more serious, "But, really- 's no more than you've done for several of us, more'n one time. Ya're part of a team now. Comes with the territory.".

 

That stops him short, the archer's mouth starting to open for a retort, then shutting again before quite getting there. With the light as dim as it is, it's not easy to follow the minute expressions flitting over his face, but _something's_  happening in that head of his. He ends up with his eyes just slightly trained to one side and down, the tiniest of creases between his brows.

 

Jesse realizes he's holding his breath, lets it out slowly.

 

"I am not... accustomed to that.", Hanzo finally admits, as if it costs him something to say it out loud. It's probably the most personal thing he's volunteered in all the months since he started working with them.

 

So of course Jesse has to go and put a foot in it. "Really? Coulda fooled me.". The moment the words are out, he winces at himself. There are times he wishes he were a little bit slower on the draw. Give his brain time to catch up.

 

Hanzo's answering look is deadpan, as dry as the deserts of Jesse's homeland. " _You_  are not a standard for perceptiveness by any means.". Delivered with an arch of that regal brow just shy of haughty and a curling of his lips he's not quite managing to suppress. Jesse gasps dramatically, grasping at his chest with one hand. "Ow, darlin'. Ya wound me.".

 

There's the briefest of moments when the two of them share a grin- well, more a smirk, in Hanzo's case, but it's definitely there and definitely amused. The tension brewing between them like a localized thunderstorm has eased considerably, and Jesse allows himself to relax, allows his grin to morph into a smile, something a little warmer.

 

Not sure if it's that or something happening only on Hanzo's end, but suddenly it's like he's remembered he had a different agenda. The smirk drops from his face to be replaced by that intense look Jesse knows so well by now and he takes one of the two steps separating them, is stopped dead by Jesse's hand shooting up to form a barrier between them. It hovers there in the air, awkwardly. Hanzo stares at it, then Jesse. This time, what emotions show on his face are plain as day: surprise, disbelief, hurt and, finally, anger.

 

That last one grounds Jesse like nothing else probably could have at this moment. It helps him resist the impulse to reach out and cup Hanzo's cheek, draw him in, kiss him, drag him into his room and there take him apart any way he knows how to take away the pain he saw flash across the archer's face. He's never seen that kind of look on him before, yet he already hates it with a passion. It makes something inside him curl up in the grip of a sympathetic, hollow ache, makes it suddenly much harder to breathe than just a moment ago.

 

His hand stays where it is.

 

"No.". He's surprised at how steady his voice sounds. "I ain't doin' this no mo'.".

 

Hanzo's scowling at him, his eyes narrow and cold. "You didn't seem opposed the last two times.".

 

"Ya, well. Not the first thing I done that I ain't proud of. But this stops. Now.", he barges on, right across Hanzo's furious hiss of protest, stabbing a finger at him, "I dunno what ya got goin' in that head'a yours, but this is just fucked up, and I ain't lettin ya use me anymore, got it?".

 

Hanzo blinks, going slack-jawed with surprise for a moment. "What are you talking about? 'Using' you? It seems to me you got as much out of it as I did, if not more.". He sounds like he really believes that. The dull ache in Jesse's chest turns into a sick sinking feeling.

 

"It ain't about that. That's not how these things work, or should work anyway, an' if you don't know that then ya got a bigger problem than I thought.".

 

Ringing silence follows that last statement. Hanzo looks at him as if he's just seeing him for the first time; perhaps he is. It really is nearly impossible to tell what's happening in that brain.

 

Finally, after a minute that feels like a lifetime, the archer straightens his back, slipping on his businesslike persona like a suit. "I am sorry for inconveniencing you, then.". His words come out as clipped and precise as if they had been discussing a deal about some noodle shipments or whatever. Jesse would very much like to punch him right now, for absolutely not getting what he was on about, but he's already turning away. A few seconds later, a door hisses open and closed again, and Jesse is alone.

 

"Fucking son of a...-", he growls into his hands while scrubbing them vigorously over his face, but his heart's not in it. He doesn't much feel like coffee anymore. More like whiskey straight from the bottle, and passing out on his bed for the next few weeks.

 

Nope. That's a new level of low that he's not ready to reach quite yet. With a deep sigh, he drags his hands from his face and continues on down to the kitchen. Coffee. Smoke. Report. Training.

 

By the time he gets back from that last one, Hanzo is already off-base.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Reyes likes sappy romances, he's just that kinda guy ;D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was all but finished with this when I found I didn't like the ending, so I went back and rewrote the damn thing. I'm an idiot. Also, I just found some fanart of the Shimada bros and McCree by kingsdarga and now I can't get their Genji art out of my head, it's SO awesome. If you want to know how I'll be picturing Genji in my head from now on, take a look at their tumblr (you should anyway, bc hell of a good artist!). 
> 
> ((http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/155052870001/sothat-hanzo-design-bonus almost killed me *crying* that bonus panel....))

 

"Thought I recognized ya handiwork back there."

 

Hanzo has an arrow trained on the spot the intruder's voice comes from before he's finished saying the second word. One thing only prevents him from loosing it- he knows this deep drawl, far too well.

 

"If you did then you will also accept that I am busy.". He keeps his answer curt as he lowers his bow, slips the arrow back into his quiver, and goes back to the task he was performing before being interrupted. Fabric rustles as he searches through pockets methodically, occasionally shifting the slowly cooling corpse said pockets belong to.

 

McCree doesn't grace his statement with an answer. He remains standing half-obscured in shadow, the sickly pale-green light from the emergency exit sign doing nothing more than reveal a faint outline, now that Hanzo knows he's there. And Hanzo finds himself glancing in that direction far too often, which is not conducive to his search.

 

"Are you alone?". He takes out a knife, starts cutting open a seam on the inside of the jacket.

 

"Mhm, yup. Jus' me, on mah lonesome.".

 

That seems to be all that's forthcoming. The seam conceals no secret pocket, either, and Hanzo allows himself a soft curse before moving on. It would help if he actually knew what it is he's supposed to look for, but his employer was frustratingly vague on that point. Some kind of data drive. Well, in this day and age, that can be just about anything. His mark may even have swallowed it, in which case this evening is about to get a lot bloodier than it was. And it was very bloody.

 

"And did you follow me here for any particular reason?".

 

No immediate answer this time, either. The silence drags on for a few more seconds, and every one that passes without response has Hanzo's skin prickling a little more. He strains to hear any sound from McCree- a breath, a scuff of boots. The clicking of a revolver being cocked.

 

" 'm not after ya, if that's what you're thinkin'. Jus'... curious, I guess.".

 

"'Curious'.".

 

A chuckle. "Yeah. Why not. Wanted ta see how ya were doin'.".

 

"I'm doing well. And now that you have satisfied your curiosity  on that point , I must ask you to leave.". Hanzo's well aware that his voice probably sounds too sharp,  too desperate to have him gone--  because if he doesn't leave soon, Hanzo knows he will end up asking him to stay instead.

 

Steps approach him. Soft steps, missing the chiming of spurs. McCree is wearing trainers instead of his usual boots, and jeans even more frayed. He kneels down next to him and Hanzo is hit by a wave of alcoholic fumes that makes him wonder how on earth he did not _smell_  his approach. The man is stinking drunk, quite literally. Appalled, Hanzo looks closer, at the gunslinger's face- the lighting probably makes it look worse than it really is, but the pale skin with its waxy sheen, together with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, would not make for a reassuring picture even in daylight. 

 

_ All on mah lonesome. _

 

W hat the hell happened? 

 

Somewhat belatedly, he also thinks to wonder just what McCree is doing, now crouching over Hanzo's dead target and reaching for the briefcase Hanzo has already checked and discarded. He pulls out the driver's license- fake, of course- regards it thoughtfully from both sides and finally holds it under Hanzo's nose with an air of drunken gravitas. "Lookin' for this?".

 

He couldn't have...? Hanzo himself had taken a look at the little plastic card and dismissed it, but now he looks again, closer, and there it is- the faint shimmer of electric circuits just underneath the laminating, meant to be held close to a reading device no doubt. He reaches for the card and tucks it safely into a pocket. "How did you know?".

 

"Educated guess? I knew a hacker.".

 

Hanzo checks the dubious "You?", that's already on his tongue. Of course McCree would know people. " Thank you.", he says instead, hesitates, inwardly scolds himself for hesitating, and stands up. McCree sways backward as he follows the movement with his eyes, landing ungracefully on his behind.  Dismayed, Hanzo looks down at him and realizes there's no way he can leave him behind in this state, to run into trouble he won't be able to deal with. 

 

No matter what happened between them the last time they were eye-to-eye.

 

"Come.". He holds out a hand for the gunslinger, who looks at it like he would a wild animal that might bite. Hanzo grits his teeth. "Come.", he repeats, more forcefully this time,  and is rewarded by McCree gripping his hand and letting himself be hauled upright- leaving most of the work to Hanzo, of course- and then nearly stumbling into him at the top of his arch. Hanzo shoves him off of himself, disgusted by the reek of cheap whiskey that's all the more pungent now that McCree is breathing straight into his face. 

 

" _Kami-sama_ , how much did you have to drink?".

 

" Not thaaat much... jus' four? Or was it five...?".

 

"Bottles?", Hanzo snorts and concentrates on steering the cowboy out of the underground parking garage by a way that is not littered with corpses.

 

"I resent the implication.".

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes.

 

" Where're we goin'?". 

 

"Hotel. Now, be quiet.".

 

"Ah now that's mighty nice'a ya. Din' really get 'round ta findin' a place, see?".

 

At that, Hanzo almost stops walking before reminding himself that if he  does , McCree will collide with him again. But he's even more aghast now. Dead drunk with not so much as a dirty hotel room to return to. _Something_  has to have happened, not even the cowboy is this slopp y usually. 

 

Dread grips his innards like an ice-cold fist. If Overwatch-- if _Genji.._..

 

Now i s not the time to ask, though,  so he fights his suddenly panicked breathing back under control and continues on. At least McCree is not a hindrance in that, his instinct to move silently and swiftly apparently just as ingrained as Hanzo's after years as an outlaw. Not even enough alcohol to be dangerous can change anything about that, it would seem.  They stop only  once so Hanzo can purchase a  small  packet of milk from a vending machine, then continue on. McCree eyes him oddly but doesn't comment. 

 

T hey meander their way through the city for about an hour before Hanzo is certain that no one has pursued them, and finally makes for his hotel. Another half-hour sees them there, with McCree swaying on his feet as Hanzo unlocks the door to his room and collapsing on the couch  afterward without so much as a look around. 

 

Despite being reasonably certain that no one has been in here since he left, Hanzo does a thorough check of the single room with its kitchen niche and tiny bathroom, noting as he does so that it feels even smaller now that he's not alone in here anymore.

 

By the time he's done, McCree is already snoring. That won't do. They'll have to do something to counteract all that alcohol, if only because Hanzo doesn't feel like dealing with one horribly hungover cowboy in the morning.  So he shakes him back to something resembling wakefulness, against the muttered death-threats, and once he's got McCree in a sitting position, presses the carton of milk into his hand. "Drink that.". 

 

The gunslinger eyes the packet owlishly. "Ya _tryna_  make me throw up?", he mutters thickly, about to put it back on the couch table and pass out again. Hanzo grabs his hand before he can. "Yes.".

 

"Gee thanks.".

 

Hanzo sighs. "You'll thank me tomorrow. Now, bottoms up, as you would doubtlessly say.". And he glares at McCree until the man finally gives in and gulps the white liquid down almost in one go. He sits there swaying slightly, looking contemplative, for a few minutes afterwards, until getting up to pad to the bathroom. "A'righ', le's go leave a sacrifice at the porcelain shrine then.".

 

Hanzo wrinkles his nose after him. He doesn't offer to hold back his hair but busies himself with making up a makeshift bed on the couch and filling the tallest glass he can find in the kitchenette cabinets with water. He dawdles until McCree returns, even paler now and with his hair dripping water liberally onto his worn shirt, presses the glass and two small pills of painkillers into his hands and goes to get a towel that he throws over his head. "Dry off. A hungover cowboy is bad enough, I'm not going to deal with a _sick_  hungover cowboy.", he tells him, and is ignored. Having downed the water, McCree flops back onto the couch and is out like a light in the same instant. 

 

Briefly, Hanzo contemplates leaving him like that. But he knows that wouldn't be a good idea.

 

It's just- it's a daunting task. And not because he doesn't want to touch the gunslinger.

 

No- because he _wants_  to, and that want has been a perpetually gnawing ache in his chest ever since their first violent kiss. He wants to, so much so that he almost doesn't trust himself to do it.

 

But he can't very well let him sleep with his hair dripping wet.

 

Carefully, as if there was any chance of waking him, he sits down on the couch next to McCree's sprawled-out form and pulls the towel out from under his head to begin rubbing his hair dry.

 

It is quite possibly the strangest thing he has ever done. It feels... intimate, in a way that is wholly new to him.

 

He tries not to let his touches linger, having no illusions left about how welcome this would be were McCree awake. The man made that very clear the last time they spoke, and Hanzo has enough respect for him  - if not quite enough self-respect, probably - not to impose  on a sleeping person . 

 

When the cowboy's hair is as dry as it will get, he switches out the wet pillow- feeling utterly pathetic  over the way his breath catches when he feels the damp strands under his bare fingers, shifting McCree's head- and then wills his hands to fold in his lap before he does anything truly foolish. 

 

When did he get so weak?

 

In an act of will partly fueled by disgust at himself, he gets up and crosses the room to pick up his phone from the bedside table. There's something else he needs to know, although his fingers hover over the display, hesitant to actually type in the word.

 

_Stop acting like a fool._

 

He opens a new message window.

 

< Brother?

 

It's unlikely that he will get a response anytime soon, he's not even in the same timezone as Genji, presumably. He knows that, and still his stomach ties itself in knots when five minutes bring no reply. The  feeling of panic, successfully suppressed earlier, begins to rise and swallow him again, try as he might to calm himself by breathing deeply and evenly. What if the reason McCree is here, alone, and in that state, is that something happened to Overwatch? What if Genji.... 

 

\-- he can't lose his brother a second time, he _can't_.....

 

The 'ping'ing of his phone brings him back to the present, and back from the brink of a veritable panic attack. Still, it takes a while before he finds the strength to lift his hand and pick up the device again.

 

> Hanzo? since when r u sending me messages, everything alright?

 

The feeling of relief washing through him is so intense it makes him go suddenly light-headed. His fingers shake so badly he has to go back and correct his answer three times before sending it.

 

< I am. What about you?

 

Genji's confusion is palpable in his reply.

 

> fine. what's this about, ur not dying are u?

 

That draws a shaky laugh from Hanzo. It figures that his brother would believe that it would take him being on the brink of death to make him reach out.

 

< No.

< I am well.

< I met McCree.

> oh.

> by 'met' you mean....?

 

Hanzo snorts briefly at the implication. Then again, hadn't he himself thought McCree was going to try and shoot him, not so long ago?

 

< I mean that I am currently trying to sober him up because he was several bottles deep from what I gathered.

< He wasn't in any state to tell me what had made him want to drown himself in alcohol.

< I though

 

He tries to delete that one, then curses at himself when he accidentally hits 'Send' instead and immediately follows it up with,

 

< Did anything happen?

 

Genji's answer takes several minutes to arrive.

 

> u could say that

> not with the team, were ok

> but we got some info, u remember reaper?

< Only too well. But isn't he dead?

> not that soab. hes like unkillable. and turns out he used 2 have a different name

>Gabe Reyes. mean anything 2 u?

< The former Overwatch commander?

> the one. became blackwatch commder later

> my old boss and jesses

< That man became Reaper?

> :thumbsup:

> hes the one who recruited jesse into bw

> was like a second father 2 him

> guy didnt take it well

 

Hanzo throws a look at the couch and the bedraggled, miserable-looking cowboy sprawled on top of it.

 

< I would say 'not taking it well' is a bit of an understatement.

> shit

> he upped it on us

> didnt even know he was gone til next morning

> winstons been combing secucams since then

> lena and i r out looking

> where r u?

> could take him off ur hands

< I think he wouldn't want that.

>... probly.  d amn.

> well at least hes safe

> the others r gonna be glad

< Not worried because it's me?

> Hanzo....

 

Genji's sigh is almost audible even over text. Hanzo bites his lip, even though he thinks it's a valid concern to have. He's the brother-killer, after all.

 

> whatre u gonna do?

< I have no idea. Not throw him out, at least. Try to keep him from drinking himself to death.

> u better tie him up then

> and dont take anything he might say to heart

< That sounds encouraging...

> i know how he can get

> call me if u need help

< Thank you.

> cu aniki

 

'See you'. Not 'goodbye'.

 

Hanzo puts the phone down, tries and fails once more to wrap his head around the idea that Genji _wants_  to have him back in his life. And that he trusts him with his friend.

 

He looks toward the couch once more. McCree hasn't moved, but he has started to snore.  His face looks drawn, and looking at him now it strikes Hanzo that he's lost weight. Just how long was he on his own? He should have asked. 

 

"I understand.", he tells him, though there's no way McCree will hear him. Not understand what it's like to find out that a person  close to you has turned on you, betrayed you, and gone over to the enemy. Just understand the sort of desperation that would drive someone to run as far  and drown themselves in as much alc o hol as possible. 

 

T hat's when Hanzo realizes he's tired. And, with a crinkling of his nose, that he's still sweaty and dirty from his mission, too, so he takes care of that and then prepares for bed with no illusion that he's going to be able to sleep tonight- or, for what's left of tonight.  It's already way past twelve, his head is buzzing with what he has learned, and McCree's presence in his room is like a heat lamp he can't turn off. Not uncomfortable, as such, but _too much_ , and he can't tune out the awareness of it. 

 

The snoring likely won't help, either.

 

Before he goes to fall into bed, he makes a detour toward the couch and drags the blanket that has half-fallen off of it at some point while he was under the shower, back over McCree's sleeping form. The next moment, he catches himself sliding his fingers into the cowboy's hair, tries and fails to convince himself that he was just checking if the strands are still damp, and snorts at how pathetic he is. 

 

_That's what comes from going against your own policy_ , he muses bitterly. In the past, especially the past ten years, whenever he felt the need for company he would make sure it was either the kind you paid for, or the kind that could be blackmailed into keeping quiet about the tattooed Japanese man and the things he'd asked to have done to him. He never went to the same person twice, and most important, he never approached a coworker, on the rare occasions that he worked together with someone else.

 

He had broken all three of these rules with McCree, and now here he  i s,  stealing snatches of contact against his own better judgment and  the gunslinger 's express wishes,  feeling like a man starving in front of a banquet because there  is a flimsy wire-fence separating him from it and h im too _stupid_  to turn away and find other food. 

 

A ll that, without even knowing what it is about the man that won't let him let go, except that he has something that fills an empty place he hadn't even known was there. 

 

_ Just go to sleep. Leave him alone and go to sleep. _

 

H e goes- to bed, at least. As expected, sleep stays far away from him. 

 

It's almost a relief when dawn comes around and he can stop pretending.  He checks his phone- a new message informs him of the time and place to drop off the data drive and collect his payment. Next, he checks on McCree, who's kicked the blanket almost off of himself again but is otherwise still out for the count.  He dresses, goes through his usual training routine of warm-up, what _kata_  he can perform in the cramped space of the little hotel room, and stretches, makes himself tea. Checks on McCree (out cold). Writes him a message on old-fashioned paper with an actual pen explaining what happened last night and where he's gone, leaves that on the couch table underneath another glass of water and the packet of painkillers (only two pills left, so there's not much danger of McCree harming himself in that way). Lingers in the door far too long, looking at him, wondering if he'll still be there when he gets back. He has no doubt that a locked door is more of an annoyance than an actual obstacle to the gunslinger.  He locks it anyway. 

 

T he exchange point fixed on by his employer is in the middle of a busy shopping mall, the exchange a matter of seconds, hands brushing while pretending to browse shirts, a short apology and an unhurried exit.  Hanzo goes on to pick up a few things, groceries mostly and two containers of take-away soup that pretends to be _ramen_ , and returns to the hotel at a leisurely stroll, acting as if his heart wasn't racing.  He doesn't know what he'll find and if he'd rather McCree had left, or that he'd stayed. Both possibilites are frightening, somehow. 

 

T he door to his room is still locked, at least, but that doesn't have to mean anything. They're only one floor up, McCree could have gone out the window. But then he steps inside, and there's a huddle of blankets and pillows and brown hair on the couch, and his heart manages to simultaneously soar and drop. 

 

He pushes the door closed behind him, purposely loudly. "It's me. You can put the gun away.", he announces himself while toeing off his shoes.

 

Movement comes into the blanket-heap, a hand extending from it to put a revolver on the low table, then withdrawing again.  Hanzo pads further into the room, puts the bag with the soup-containers inside on the couch table and notes in doing so that the glass is empty and the packet of medicine on the floor, the foil containing the pills also empty. McCree rolls half over and squints up at him with fever-bright eyes, and Hanzo sighs. Wonderful. 

 

" One of these is for you.", he tells  him , indicating the soup. A dull look is all the answer he gets.

 

A moment later, McCree snatches his hand out of the air, having moved far faster than Hanzo anticipated he would be able to in this state. They glare at each other for a moment, before Hanzo extricates his hand with a very deliberate movement and places it on the cowboy's forehead to check his temperature, like he originally intended .  McCree subsides, grumbling. He feels warmer than he should, but not alarmingly so. Thank the gods for small mercies. 

 

" You my mother or what?", comes the peevish inquiry, which Hanzo doesn't grace with an answer. He goes to fetch two spoons instead, plonks one down on the table for his guest, takes one container out of the bag and retreats to the kitchenette to eat. Examining his phone while he does so saves him from having to observe McCree, who pointedly does _not_  eat. He's beginning to understand Genji's concerns. 

 

There are several new messages on his phone, one even from Dr. Ziegler, who thanks him for 'taking care of Jesse', and repeats Genji's offer of coming to fetch him. Hanzo's not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed, and settles  for something in between. 

 

The rest are from Genji:

 

> good morning, aniki!

> at least im gonna assume its morning where u are

> if not, its your own fault i just woke u for not telling me what timezone ur in

> just wanted to check on u

> u strangle jesse yet?

 

Hanzo snorts softly and types his answer out one-handed.

 

< It is midday here. McCree is still alive, through no fault of his own. Does he always act like a petulant child when he's sick?

 

The answer doesn't take at all long to arrive.

 

> ohshit. sick how?

< Running a fever.

> sending Angela over there right now....

< Aren't you overreacting a bit?

> u don't know him

< He can't be worse than you used to be.

 

Hanzo regrets sending that tex t immediately . He doesn't want to bring up memories of the time when they were still close.  It is painful enough dealing with the aftermath of what he did without remembering the past. 

 

Genji doesn't seem to mind.

 

> hey i was a model patient!

 

And Hanzo can't quite help himself.

 

< While asleep...

> 50% of the time then :P

< .............

> :lol:

 

Something strange happens to Hanzo then.  Even as he's shaking his head and biting his lip to keep from laughing, a wave of pain sweeps up through him- mourning for what he destroyed, regrets for what he almost lost. The resultant clash of emotions has him gripping at his chest that feels much too tight suddenly, has him fighting back tears. It takes a massive effort not to break down and several minutes of breathing deep, even breaths before he can sit up again. 

 

A nd when he does, and looks around, it's right into McCree's alarmed face. He's halfway through pushing up from the couch, although right at that exact moment he  overbalances and collapses back down again,  holding his head .  Hanzo winces inwardly. Of course he had to see that. 

 

" Ok, the hell just happened?", McCree asks after a moment of mutual embarassment. 

 

"I.... nothing.". Hanzo looks away, back at his phone. It's vibrating, more messages from Genji coming in.

 

"Mhhh-hmmmm, 'nothing''s always got _me_  lookin' like I just been run through with somethin'.". The attempt at sarcasm  falls somewhat short , considering McCree sounds like someone took a rasp to his vocal chords. 

 

" It's _nothing_!", Hanzo snaps. McCree settles back against the pillows with a huff, holding his hands up and rolling his eyes. " Have it your way, then.".  Hanzo ignores him and turns his attention ba c k to his phone, where Genji's newest message has him gritting his teeth. 

 

> youre awful possessive of jesse rn, btw

> something happen that im not aware of? :eyebrowwaggle:

< Brother....

> sry, sry

> backing off

> srsly though, u 2 normally cant stand each other

> im allowed to wonder

< Then go on wondering.

> yessir

> give jesse my love

 

Before Hanzo can start to wonder if that is actually a good idea, convince himself that it isn't, and refrain from doing it, he opens his mouth. "My brother sends his love.".

 

McCree's eyes snap back open. "Since when're you speaking?".

 

"Texting.". Hanzo waggles his phone, gets a snort back. "Now who's arguing semantics?".

 

There's a pause.

 

"He tell you?".

 

"Of course.".

 

" _Hijo de..._  . Tell him fuck you from me.".

 

< He says 'fuck you'.

> <3

 

"What exactly does a heart emoji mean under these circumstances?".

 

Another snort. "That he's a motherfucker, no offense to your ma.".

 

"If you are going to insult each other, I refuse to be the middleman. Do it on your own phone.".

 

McCree actually laughs at that, short and bleak and petering out in a coughing fit. Once that is over, he curls up groaning, clutching his head with both hands.

 

"You could try eating something.", Hanzo tells him, refusing to feel pity.

 

" Don't much feel like it.". 

 

"I know. It's unfortunately still necessary.".

 

The innocent container on the table receives a baleful look.  In a manner seemingly completely unrelated, McCree suddenly asks, "Genji tell you where we got the info from? 'bout Reaper.". 

 

" He didn't. Just that you and... Reyes... were close once.". 

 

"Close.". McCree scoffs. "Ya could say that. I thought I _knew_  Gabe. I mean, he could be a bit moody an' unpredictable even then, prob'ly why they made Jack Strike Commander, but...".  A deep sigh, one that carries all the weight of the world with it. When he speaks up next, it is like something is forcing him to do it, the words tumbling out like he can't quite stop himself. "I jus'... keep wonderin', what if I'd stayed, what if I'd been payin' closer attention... I coulda changed what happened. Or maybe not and I woulda ended up dead, _really_  dead, not like Ana an' Jack... 'least I didn't jus' chicken out... didn't leave my fuckin' daughter behind either, not that I can really complain, not like I was _there_  for her either,  an' I'm so fuckin' sorry, 'Reeha....". He seems to have completely forgotten that Hanzo is even there, listening in bafflement,  feeling more desperately uncomfortable with every word .  He shouldn't be here to witness this. All his instincts call for him to get up and leave and let McCree preserve his dignity by not having Hanzo listen to him crumbling. 

 

It's just- he can't move.

 

" McCree?", he hazards, too softly, apparently, because the cowboy just goes on babbling. " And ya know the funniest thing about alla this? I shot'm. I _shot_  Gabe, right in the fuckin' back, and if he'd ever caught me like this back in the day ya can be sure I'd'a never heard the end of it... an' here he just...", he giggles, the sound just this side of hysterical, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and Hanzo knows that if he doesn't stop his slide down whatever slope he's on, he'll break down for good. It's not something he wants to deal with. It's not something he _knows_  how to deal with. 

 

His next try  to get through to the gunslinger is  therefore much more forceful. "McCree!". The man jerks, his jaw snapping shut. He looks around at Hanzo with startled confusion,  breathing short, hard breaths, the skin of his face and neck reddened. 

 

"You were rambling,", Hanzo informs him, "And not making any sense at all. What was it you wanted to tell me?".

 

"I... ah....". Hanzo watches as McCree  pulls the pieces of himself back together. They seem to hold, if barely. The cowboy then mentally backtracks, until he finds the juncture where he derailed. " Sorry... I.... our source. That was it, right?". Hanzo nods.  Mcree snorts. "Some source. Ana Amari an' Jack Morrison, they were our source.". 

 

"You're saying....?".

 

McCree waves a hand through the air aimlessly. "Yep. They're as dead as Gabe, or maybe a little less. Jus' thought it'd be a good idea to let everyone believe they were. An' now they're wantin' our help with somethin', an' so they go forwardin' a lotta data to Winston in the hopes of mellowing him up.  Monkey swallowed the bait, of course, an' forgave 'em right away. I probably shoulda done the same but I jus' can't....".  He scrubs both hands over his face roughly. 

 

"I don't blame you.". This news is certainly interesting to Hanzo, but not fraught with emotion like it so obviously is for McCree.  A bit more hesitantly, he adds, "And who is Reeha?". 

 

"Hmmm...? Oh... Fareeha. Amari. Ana's daughter. She used to come by sometimes, pester me ta play soldiers with her...". There's a fond little  smile on his lips, nostalgia writ large. The name rings some sort of bell with Hanzo,  although he can't quite recall where he heard it before. " She's gonna be _so_  pissed when she finds out her mother was actually alive all this time.". McCree's tone goes suddenly flat. 

 

Hanzo doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't try.  McCree doesn't seem to need his contribution. "Anyway, that's mah sob story. After all that I jus'... I had ta get out. Didn't matter where, 's long as it was _out_. An' then I find you. What're the odds of that, anyway?". 

 

"If you really want to know, I could try and calculate them for you.".

 

M cCree huffs. "God forbid, no. Was a rhethoric question.". 

 

Hanzo gifts him with a deadpan look. It's a real laugh this time, accompanied only by a small wince of pain. Silence falls again, almost companionable. The soup has gone cold by this time but Hanzo doesn't feel like troubling the microwave and eats the rest as it is,  throws the container into the bin and  washes and dries off the spoon. 

 

When he looks toward the couch again, McCree is back asleep.  With the blanket on the floor, as if he does it on purpose. "You owe me something after this.", Hanzo tells him as he spreads the fabric over him. 

 

T he afternoon passes quietly,  with McCree fast asleep and Hanzo watching TV with the volume turned down so it's just audible, until he gets fed up with the uninteresting newsfeeds and sappy soaps and tries reading instead. There are a few books on his tablet that he never touched, courtesy of Agent Tracer who sent them to him whether he wanted them or not, claiming that he _had_  to read Terry Pratchett at least once in his life, or it would be a life wasted. He's never been much into fantasy until now, and a quarter into the first book he asks himself exactly why that was. Not that he'd admit it out loud, but- he's certainly missed out. 

 

A nd if his eyes stray over to the cowboy on the couch a little too often and linger a little too long, nobody has to know. 

 

A round seven, McCree begins to stir again, stretching slowly and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his flesh hand. He casts around until his look settles on Hanzo and flips him a tiny salute, murmurs a low, "Howdy there.", in a sleep-rough voice. 

 

Hanzo feels his lips twitch. "Good... evening, I guess. How are you feeling?". He shuts the tablet off and slips into a sitting position at the edge of the bed where he'd previously been leaning against the headboard.

 

"Like... 200 percent better. Could actually eat somethin'.".

 

" There's still that soup. I could warm it for you.". 

 

"Ya're a darlin'. Er... yanno what... let's leave that for after I've grabbed a shower.". Having sat up by now, McCree looks down at his grimy shirt and makes a face. "Ya don't have any clothes I could borrow 'til I can get these washed?".

 

" Even if I did, they wouldn't fit you, so I bought spares for you. They're in the bag next to you. I hope I got the size right.". 

 

McCree stares at him like he's just seen a live unicorn. "I take back the darlin'. Ya're a marvel.".

 

"... and you're going to give me the money back later.".

 

That draws a snort and a muttered complaint about 'fuckin' yakuza', and it has Hanzo grinning for no reason he could easily name. " And dry your hair off properly this time!", he calls after McCree as he shuffles into the bathroom. 

 

"Yes, mother!".

 

N o matter what he does, the smile just won't budge from Hanzo's face as he pours the cold soup into a bowl and puts that in the microwave to heat.  It takes him ten minutes and a meditation exercise to finally banish it. 

 

McCree emerges a little while later, dressed in the dark grey tracksuit with red logo print that Hanzo found  for him , hood up. He looks much more aware now, for all that his color could still use some work. He also looks rather self-conscious as he slides into the chair at the tiny table and lets Hanzo put the bowl in front of him. And it is an odd moment,  both their skewed, jaded selves trying to fit themselves into the picture frame of domesticity, and not quite succeeding. Hanzo's internal map for moments like these was written in his family's castle in his youth, then pushed to the back of his mind to gather dust after his flight, and it doesn't encompass mealtimes with an American outlaw and fellow vigilante, a man he barely knows  except through violent kisses and harsh sex. Who he still _wants_ , so much that it borders on desperation. 

 

He suspects McCree isn't doing much better.

 

So, clueless of what else to do, Hanzo uses his go-to solution for complicated social moments: he retreats.

 

"I've got some laundry that needs doing, do you want me to takes your clothes as well?", he asks, leaning against the counter and playing with his phone for want to anything better to do that doesn't involve staring at McCree. The question seems to take him by surprise- he glances up and then quickly down again at his somewhat slimy noodles. "Uh... yeah... thanks. That'd be great.".

 

Hanzo nods and tries not to hurry as he gathers the cowboy's clothing from the bathroom where he left it, stuffs it into the bag holding his own things, and exits stage left. Only at the wash saloon does he realize the monumental mistake this whole enterprise constituted- but, luckily, McCree's clothes are dirty enough and still reek of cheap alcohol enough to prevent any embarassing behaviour on his part.

 

The washing machines in the little, bare and sterile-looking saloon might as well be powered by a handful of hamsters running in their treadmills for how long they take to wash and then tumble dry their loads. Too much idle time that Hanzo spends trying _not_  to think about what he will do next. After he gets back. Tomorrow. The day after. He especially tries not to think about whether whatever he will do will involve a certain cowboy. Just the thought of parting ways with McCree again makes him go cold inside. The thought of _not_  parting ways, on the other hand, has him panicking.

 

By the time the washing-and-drying-process is finally finished, he has twisted his thoughts into a fine tangle and is quite fed up with himself. The way back to the hotel he spends inwardly chastising himself for his appalling weakness and shoring up his resolve to leave first thing tomorrow- alone.

 

A resolve that flees him the instant he steps through the door to his room again. The lights are low, only the bedside lamp and the TV-set turned on, where some kind of game show is being aired. Hanzo wonders at this odd choice of programme, but only for a moment until he catches sight of McCree's face. He's sitting, or rather slouching, at the edge of the bed, holding the remote loosely in front of him with both hands, not so much looking at the TV as staring off into the middle distance. Lost in his own head, once more. Even Hanzo's deliberately loud entrance doesn't make him look up.

 

Bag full of clean and folded clothing deposited inside the wardrobe, Hanzo slowly approaches him from the side. There's no sign that he's been noticed, yet Hanzo still prepares himself for a violent response as he reaches for the remote and pulls it gently from McCree's lax grip. Still nothing, only the slightest turning of that shaggy brown head. Scowling softly, Hanzo turns off the annoying show, tosses the remote aside, and stands rooted to the spot.

 

No map, no guiding lights, no compass. He has nothing for dealing with a situation like this, only an animal instinct to reach out and touch, so that's what he does. Intending to shake McCree by the shoulder he ends up sliding his hand up his neck, feeling soft, short hair and a slick, old scar under his fingers. His thumb lingers there, tracing circles around it. The warmth of McCree's skin isn't that of fever anymore. One part of him registers that fact and is relieved about it. The rest just revels in that warmth.

 

His other hand is cupping the underside of McCree's jaw, beard a bristly contrast to the softness of his hair. He can't quite remember how it got there, but it's in the perfect position to tip the cowboy's head back, and from there, it's only a tiny step to bending down and capturing his lips.

 

He can't tell if the moan is McCree's or his own. He doesn't _care_. Those lips that have haunted his dreams if they haven't kept him from sleep are under his, again, finally, slack and pliant, but only for a moment, because McCree surges up, into him, and now they're firm, demanding. McCree's hand fisting in the front of his shirt pulls him down- the act upsets their already jeopardized balance, and they go down on the bed, _somehow_  managing to keep the kiss intact through it. Half in McCree's lap, a knee between his legs, Hanzo can feel him hardening against his thigh. A thrill of triumph runs through him, eclipsed by the rush of desire-- and a sense of... of fulfilment... greater than both.

 

He opens his mouth for McCree, ready to let him in, ready for anything as long as it involves the cowboy's mouth, his hands, his body. The first slide of their tongues against each other feels electric, drawing another moan that Hanzo is almost sure is his own this time. McCree tastes different from what he remembers, not so much smoke and whiskey now, more just himself.

 

If he was addicted before, he's lost now.

 

Hands are tugging at his shirt, one metal, one flesh, fumbling to free it from the waistband of his trousers. Hanzo's body suddenly vividly remembers the bruises those hands left during their last encounter, bruises that he wore for a week, and he shudders with need.

 

All he can think is, _yes_.

 

As fast as it started, it is suddenly over. McCree stiffens under him. The hand that had, just a moment before, been working to get at his skin now splays against his chest, pushing him up. Caught utterly by surprise, Hanzo goes with it and half-falls, half-slides off of the cowboy, landing on his side on the bed. A fall of not quite half a meter with a soft landing, that to him feels like a tumble into an endless dark well. The heat and the hope of not a second ago extinguished, snatched away and replaced with a cold wind that cuts right through him. McCree rolls away from him and gets to his feet, hurriedly, almost tripping in the process. He remains standing with his back to him and his head in his hands, cursing softly in a mixture of English and Spanish.

 

Hanzo's first instinct is to push up from the bed and wrap his arms around his waist and beg him to stay.

 

His second, to curl up and shut out the world until his chest stops hurting, but that instinct has been trained out of him from childhood and he suppresses it with ease, reaching for indignation instead. It comes easily, a flood that washes everything else away. (A blessed relief).

 

"McCree, what the hell?!", he hisses at the gunslinger as he pushes himself up on his elbows and from there into a sitting position, only to have the man suddenly round on him. "What d'ya mean, 'what the hell'? I thought we been over this, thought I made it clear that I ain't playin' this game!".

 

"You were reciprocating rather eagerly for someone who doesn't want to 'play'.". Hanzo uses the deadpan tone thas has unnerved many a business partner of the Shimada into accepting a bad deal by falling over themselves to assure the future head of the family of their continued loyalty. It has that effect on McCree, at first- Hanzo can see him reeling- but he recovers damnably fast. "Nope, you don't get to play that card, like ya didn't know damn well that I wasn't... entirely on this plane... when ya sprung that on me!".

 

"If that were my intention I would have had plenty of opportunities for it. I wasn't trying to seduce you-"- McCree scoffs-"I... I _was_  trying to snap you out of whatever was happening...". Suddenly at a loss for words, Hanzo's voice peters out. He doesn't know how to describe what went on inside him in that moment, nor does he feel so inclined. But his silence puts himself into a considerably worse position than before- he can only hope McCree doesn't notice.

 

"And then ya just so 'happened' to kiss me.". Having the deadpan turned on him makes Hanzo wince internally. He did notice. That's his high ground, gone; now for the slaughter.

 

But then McCree drags a hand through his hair, sighing as if the weariness of the world rested on his shoulders, and continues in a much lower, softer tone, "Dammit Hanzo. Shouldn't be this hard to accept a 'no'.".

 

"And why not? You tell me you don't want sex with me when all evidence points to the contrary. I could _feel_  how hard you were. If... if you want me to beg you, I can do that, too.". Having followed him from the bed, Hanzo stops just short of reaching out. The last words are spoken much more softly than the rest, his gaze lowering, not because he's ashamed- he's had company who got off on him begging, before, he's grown inured to it, and the indignity of it suits him just fine. No-- it's not shame-- only an attempt to appear submissive because the kind of partner that gets off on begging usually prefers him that way.

 

It doesn't seem to be working on McCree. Quite the contrary- the cowboy takes one very deliberate step away from him, crosses his arms and scowls at him in a way that stops Hanzo in his tracks.

 

"Why not? Really? Well, for one thing, ya brother's my damn friend, can't imagine he'd be too happy about what I've been getting up to with you-". He breaks off when Hanzo scoffs. "You don't know my brother very well if you think he'd mind.".

 

"Think so, do ya?". McCree leaves those words to dangle in the air and then stands there waiting for Hanzo to snatch at the bait. Hanzo, in his turn, silently snarls at him, refusing to give him the satisfacion, until the other man gives in with a sigh. "I think ya should have a talk with ya brother sometime. Might find that he's changed quite a bit.".

 

That stings, on several levels. And, stung, Hanzo snarls more audibly. " _Genji_  has nothing to do with this. Find a better reason.".

 

"Okay? Okay! Reason number two, I ain't a sex toy, or a bandaid, or whatever you're usin' me for. Or's that another version of your martyr thingy? Anyway, not helpin' with the self-flagellation, come to me when ya need help doin' something actually useful.". The words hit like a series of punches, which is good because it helps Hanzo to focus on the anger that comes with the pain. With his teeth grit in a grimace of fury, he draws himself up. "Out.", is the one word he's able to manage right now, but McCree doesn't have to know that. He will never demean himself in front of this man again, he decides in that instant. Never.

 

The gunslinger's eyes are full of an anger of his own, but there's disappointment, too, and a dark resignation that's all too familiar.

 

"Alright.".

 

McCree turns away to gather his belongings, and-- why does that make him feel like he's just been given up? Hanzo stands like a stone through the mild commotion that is the cowboy tracking down his things, and through the cold gathering at the center of his chest. On his way out the door, McCree pauses and Hanzo can hear by the rustle and shift of his clothes that he is turning to look at him. "Thanks anyway. For helpin' me find my feet again.". Another rustle, probably the other man running a hand through his hair prior to putting on his hat. "Guess I'll head back to Overwatch then... see ya 'round?".

 

Hanzo doesn't answer. He hears a small huff, retreating footsteps and the soft thud of the door closing.

 

It is much later- he's not sure how much- when a 'ping' noise from his phone alerts him to his surroundings once more. Slightly stiff from having stood in one place for so long, he goes to look for it and finds another message from Genji.

 

> hey, how u 2 doing?

 

The world is suddenly blurring, right before the phone smashes against the wall to a shout of anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lena's totally a Pratchett fan, you can't tell me otherwise :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much Jesse in this (sorry), but we're expanding our cast (finally) and Hanzo gets to meet his spirit sister ;)
> 
> I'm not all happy with this one, but, again, poking at it until it's kaputt won't help, so here you go... 
> 
> Oh, and mind the tags please, I wasn't joking about the anxiety one! (!!!! underlining this since I apparently managed to set off one person at least- yikes. There are two separate scenes in this chapter that can be triggering, around the middle and end. Please proceed with caution!)

"Not an option, I'm afraid.".

 

Hanzo wills himself not to grit his teeth at the holoscreen and Winston's big, honest face taking up most of it. The gorilla seems genuinely sorry at having to refuse his request, but that doesn't change the fact.

 

"We have acquired several new members over the last few weeks, it's vital that the entire team goes through a training period to become acquainted with one another and their abilities, prior to the next mission. You know that.".

 

"I do. It's simply-- something has come up that would make it inconvenient for me to rejoin you at this point.". It's a struggle to continue to look straight at the screen and keep his right hand from gripping his upper arm, but nearly four decades of training in self-restraint do serve him well- in that regard, at least. Hanzo's voice is as steady as the flight-path of one of his arrows, and if he seems a little stiff, he just has to hope Winston doesn't notice.

 

'Something has come up.'. What an excuse for an excuse. 'Inconvenient'. Excruciatingly awkward. Hanzo never wants to see McCree's face again, but it seems he has no choice, not if he wants to make amends to his brother. And now even the option to join Overwatch at the mission site, as opposed to weeks prior at Gibraltar, has been taken away. Knowing that he would only have to stand the gunslinger's presence for a few days, at most, would have been almost bearable. But weeks on base, in close proximity with the man, the cause and witness of Hanzo's biggest embarrassment...-

 

\- he has no idea how on earth he is going to survive this.

 

But he can't very well tell Winston the true reason for his reluctance, hence the threadbare lie. It is a small comfort that McCree apparently kept quiet about what happened between them after Hanzo picked him up drunk in an underground car park. Otherwise, Winston would surely have confronted him about that- and if not Winston, then someone else of the well-meaning, meddling group of wannabe heroes Genji calls his family.

 

(Not even Genji himself has so much as mentioned anything; there have only been a series of vaguely confused and concerned texts on Hanzo's almost- destroyed phone. At least he has that excuse for not answering any of them- Genji doesn't have to know that it was Hanzo himself who threw it at a wall.)

 

"I really am very sorry, but there's no way- this mission will be a very important one, we can't afford to go in with a half-trained team.".

 

Hanzo catches the sigh that wants to escape his lips just in time. "Very well. Tell me where to meet with Agent Tracer, then.".

 

.

 

And this is how he finds himself in his second Overwatch team meeting with two new faces and two that are new only to him, and even then only in the sense that he hasn't met the people belonging to them personally, because Jack Morrison and Ana Amari are war heroes, legends. The kind of people children want to be like when they grow up.

 

Only until they find out who their heroes really are, Hanzo silently muses. But then, who is he to point fingers?

 

Out of the two of them, it is Amari who really looks the part of veteran war hero as she leans against the back wall, arms crossed, her one-eyed hawk's gaze roving over the heads of the agents gathered in the debriefing room. Just to look at her is to feel respect- be it grudging or otherwise. Morrison mostly just looks tired. Long gone is Overwatch's golden boy, leaving behind a jaded-looking man who hasn't taken well to age. It feels uncomfortably like a look into Hanzo's own future- should he even live to see sixty.

 

The other two newcomers in the room are unknown quantities. Hana Song, or 'D.Va', as she is known to most of the world, star-gamer, MEKA-pilot, and far too young to be fighting any kind of fight, and Vishkar's one-time secret agent Symmetra, who is also, as it turns out, their former lead architech, Satya Vaswani. The older of the two women came with a wealth of stolen data on Vishkar's business practices, plans, and other valuable intel. The younger with the best wishes from the Korean government.

 

Hanzo has a lot of questions about that. Questions that he'll put to Winston in private.

 

By herself, the girl looks harmless enough, all pretty face and pink, purple and white clothes, playing with a tiny keychain plushie of a pink rabbit that she's rotating around her finger on its ring, -- or not, considering the way she keeps her narrowed eyes trained on Winston without ever wavering in her attention, while seemingly still aware of every movement around her; when Tracer, sitting almost right behind her, shifts to lean forward in her seat, Hanzo can see Song's back muscles go tense before slowly relaxing again. He has to admit to being reluctantly impressed.

 

Vaswani, also, is paying rapt attention, but unlike her counterpart she is also taking notes with a sleek white stylus on a translucent writing pad, both of which she created out of hardlight at the beginning of the meeting. She's writing in what looks like a neat shorthand, sitting perfectly upright, but Hanzo catches her glancing toward the whirling plush bunny every so often, as if irritated by it. Her chair is at a perfect right angle to the wall next to her, yet another thing that makes him wonder.

 

After Winston is done hawing and hemming through his introductory speech, McCree gets up to take his place and outline the rough parameters of the upcoming mission and the training routine leading up to it. Most of his cowboy regalia are absent, except for the infamous hat, but the casual confidence, the saunter with which he ambles up to Winston to clap him on the shoulder, the warm drawl in which he then addresses the gathered agents, are just the same. He does look much better than the last time Hanzo saw him, physically, and it doesn‘t help at all.

 

Hanzo finds he can't look at him.

 

He instead concentrates on breathing around the tight lump of equal parts shame, guilt, and desire, in his chest.

 

No one seems to notice his sudden of absence of mind, all eyes in the room trained forward. While McCree is speaking, Hanzo takes to watching his former commanders, which is a rather interesting show all on its own. Morrison seems gruffly bemused, sometimes moving in the direction of reluctant respect, while Amari's tiny half-smile veers between nostalgic fondness, sadness, motherly pride and sometimes outright amusement. Hanzo remembers McCree mentioning that he used to play with her daughter and wonders just how close they really were.

 

He‘s listening with half an ear as McCree goes on to roughly describing each member‘s abilities and accomplishments and only tunes in fully once the cowboy gets to their new additions. It‘s hardly a surprise to learn that Song excels at piloting the MEKA suits Korea employs against its Omnic attackers. It is to learn that Vaswani can create hardlight teleporters, among other things. A small discussion as to their uses breaks out almost immediately, into the midst of which Brigitte asks to see one, Tracer leans back in her chair with a small shudder and a brittle laugh, declaring, „Well, I‘m not putting one foot in one of these things!“, to which Dr. Ziegler cautions that that would probably not be wise in her case, anyway, and McCree holds up his hands, laughing, „Hang on, folks, y‘all gonna get to see them tomorrow. If that‘s alright with ya, Satya?“.

The architech nods, looking a little overwhelmed. „It is.“.

„Ya heard her, people. Now calm the fuck down, _I‘m not tellin‘ ya twice, Torb_!“, because Lindholm the elder has just chosen that moment to launch into a tirade on the dangers of hardlight tech in general and teleportation in particular. The gunslinger‘s voice is sharp enough to shut Torbjörn up immediately, after which silence gradually settles back in.

 

„So, after y‘all have made a really _good_  first impression-“, the sarcasm in McCree‘s voice could have cut glass, „We‘ll have our first training session tomorrow, 0800 sharp, `m gonna need everyone in their full gear, try to leave each other alive until then.“.

 

„ _Si, Jefe_!“, Genji calls out, saluting and mangling the Spanish pronounciation so badly even Hanzo winces. Oxton follows up with an „Aye, Sir!“, and Wilhelm with „ _J_ _awoll, Cheff!_ “. McCree waves them all off, laughing despite himself. „Get, you insufferable lot! Outta here!“.

 

„Time to beat it, he‘s getting that glint in his eyes!“. Genji jumps up laughing but is beaten out the door by Tracer, who makes the distance in one blink. Hanzo‘s brother dashes out after her; the rest of the team follow at a somewhat more sedate pace, Hanzo himself opting to wait until after the small jam at the door dissolves. He‘s not the only one who seems to think that way; Vaswani takes her time dismissing her pad and pen and then runs her fingertips across her face and into her hair. McCree approaches her after having turned off the holo terminal, turns a chair around and sits down facing her.

 

„Y‘alright?“, he asks in a low voice obviously not meant for anyone else, and Hanzo should move away to a distance where he can‘t eavesdrop on them…

 

„Yes.“. The architech‘s answer is curt, decisive, no smile accompanying it to soften its effect, which is that of very nearly arrogance. McCree doesn‘t bat a lash, just goes on talking in that same low voice. „I get that it can be a bit tough gettin‘ used to us, I mean, we can be a lil‘ rowdy. If anything gets too much, tell us, okay? Like that toy of Hana‘s, for example.“. He winks, once, and now Hanzo can see the surprise blooming on her face, followed by an almost abashed look.

 

Vaswani mutters something, looking away, and McCree sighs. „That‘s what I‘m talkin‘ about. If ya don‘t tell us when somethin‘s botherin‘ ya, we can‘t change anything about it. Ya probably havin‘ a hard enough time as it is. An‘ another thing, don‘t let Torb get under your skin, he‘s a cranky old troll who loves his turrets way too much, don‘t think ya gotta take his grumblin‘ seriously.“. There‘s one of those lopsided smiles on McCree‘s face, mirrored by a tentative one on the architech‘s.

 

(Hanzo isn‘t sure where the sudden rush of _fury_  comes from, but he‘s all but drowning in it-)

 

McCree gets up from the chair. It‘s the part where he would normally clap a hand onto a teammate‘s shoulder, Hanzo has seen him do it so often that he knows it to be something of a habit. He doesn‘t now, instead tipping his hat at Vaswani, who looks rather confused by the gesture. Then he turns toward Hanzo, who has a glowing hot moment to regret that he didn‘t leave when he could have and a struggle to not punch the cowboy in the face, at the exact same time.

 

„Ya need somethin‘, Hanzo?“. The previously warm drawl has cooled considerably, the archer can‘t fail to notice. McCree looks almost wary, definitely reserved.

 

No excuse what he was doing, loitering in the briefing room long after all the other agents have left, is coming to Hanzo. He‘s too angry to bother with one, anyway.

 

„What were you talking about?“, he demands, turning to face McCree fully, whose eyes narrow to slits.

 

„Listenin‘ in, were ya? There‘s such a thing as privacy, dunno if ya heard‘a it...“. Where previously it was only cool, the gunslinger‘s voice is now positively icy. Hanzo prepares for another confrontation, knowing that he can only lose this one because technically he -was- listening in to a private conversation but determined to give no ground, when Vaswani‘s appearance at McCree‘s elbow puts a halt to both their tempers. „My condition. I am neurodivergent- autistic.“, she clarifies when Hanzo frowns at her. McCree makes a tiny motion towards her, and Hanzo‘s temper flares once more.

 

„And you didn‘t think to inform the team of this? Or did you, and simply forget to inform _me_?“, he demands of McCree, who bristles at him in turn. „Only Winston and I know so far, and it‘s Satya‘s business who she wants ta tell `bout it!“.

 

„You would endanger your teammates by keeping something like this from them, out of some half-baked notion of chivalry?! What if she has a breakdown in the middle of a mission?“.

 

„I am still _right here_!“. The architech‘s voice is a whip, forceful enough to wrench Hanzo‘s head round to look at her. She stands scowling at him with arms crossed over her chest, drawn up to her full height. Her surprisingly bright eyes burn holes into him, and--

 

– „Thank you for your input, Mr. Shimada, I shall give your words due consideration.“.

 

And with that, Hanzo finds himself suddenly blinking at her retreating back as she sweeps out of the room.

 

Next to him, McCree at least has the good grace to pretend to suffer from a sudden coughing fit.

 

„Y‘all ain‘t related, are ya?“, he chokes out between bouts of fake-coughing, at which Hanzo only scowls- which in turn just makes the cowboy give up the pretense and start laughing in earnest.

 

Hanzo decides he does not have to grace this with a reaction and stalks off, teeth and fists clenched. He makes straight for his room, planning to not leave it again until the next morning.

 

He doesn‘t even get that far without further humiliation. Passing the rec room, he spots Lindholm jr. and Song sharing the couch inside, deep in conversation. They glance up as he walks past, exchange a look, and Brigitte shakes her head. Just by that, Hanzo knows they‘ll be discussing him next. He very much doubts Brigitte‘s account of him will be in any way complimentary.

 

(That shouldn‘t bother him. He‘s here for Genji, and Genji only. None of these others truly matter.)

 

(If Brigitte biases Song against him from the very start, it‘s no more than he deserves.)

 

(Better the girl find out the truth about him right away.)

 

Finally alone in his room and with the door safely closed between him and the rest of the Watchpoint, he finds he‘s too restless to go to sleep yet, too listless to do anything productive, so he ends up pacing. Up and down the length of the small enclosed space. Up, down, up, down. Up… and down. Up… down.

 

Stop.

 

He stands in the middle of his room, both hands gripping at the opposite bicep, staring at nothing.

 

When he got back to Gibraltar, everyone, including the Lindholms, went out of their way to thank him for helping McCree. It was a form of torture hitherto unknown to him, especially since the man himself wouldn‘t meet his eyes past a brief greeting nod. He‘d brushed them off as quickly as he could, and yet, excruciatingly uncomfortable as these shows of thanks were, he could not make himself believe them to be unwelcome. A part of him had grasped at the smiles, the hugs (crushing, in Wilhelm‘s case), even Dr. Ziegler‘s kisses (one quick peck on each cheek, leaving him more bewildered than he‘d been in a very long time), with desperate greed, drinking them in like half-dead grass would a spring rain. That same part had hated him more with every time he rebuffed one of his team members and got yet another disappointed or angry look for it.

 

He had to remind himself that it was the right thing to do.

 

He doesn‘t deserve their thanks. He doesn‘t deserve their kindness.

 

And yet.

 

And yet…

 

No. It doesn‘t matter how many bridges he‘s burned today, with old team mates or new. _I_ _t‘s your punishment. At least have the strength to bear it with dignity_.

 

He grits his teeth, wills his hands to let go their death grip on his arms and himself to stand up straight.

 

Only to find the room swaying crazily as soon as he raises his eyes from the floor. He clenches them shut, but the feeling only intensifies. His palms suddenly feel damp and clammy, his chest too tight, making him gasp for every desperate breath. Through the sudden rushing in his ears, he hears a voice- a disembodied, feminine voice, and briefly thinks that‘s it, he‘s going crazy, before his brain registers it as the voice of the resident A.I. Who seems to have been trying to get through to him for at least a minute or so-- and why is he suddenly on the floor…?

 

„Agent Shimada? Agent Shimada, my protocol requires me to alert Dr. Ziegler that you are having a medical emergency if you do not answer me immediately! Alerting Dr.-“,

 

„No.“, Hanzo croaks out, spooked into finding his voice, if not quite his bearings, by the prospect of having Dr. Ziegler see him like this. He couldn‘t bear that. „Don‘t, Athena, I‘m fine, I‘ll be fine….“.

 

„Are you certain? Your vitals indicate that you were having an anxiety attack. It would be advisable for you to get medical attention.“.

 

„I‘m fine!“. Somehow, he‘s made it over to the bed, where he doesn‘t sit down so much as fall over. „I‘m just...“, _Weak._  

 

„If you say so….“. Athena‘s artificial voice sounds doubtful, but she stops bothering him, and the silence after is so complete it is deafening. Hanzo‘s ears are burning with shame as he turns onto his side on the bed. Ten years on the run, more killings than he could be bothered to count, close calls, injuries and even torture, and now he breaks down like a little child at the thought that a few people playing heroes on a rock in the Mediterranean might not like him? Shameful.

 

(If only he weren‘t so tired.)

 

(He should get up and undress, at the very least, better yet, take a shower, but the mere thought is enough to sap him of all strength.)

 

(And that silence…)

 

„Athena?“, he manages, a whisper, so low he almost can‘t hear himself. There‘s no immediate answer; her microphones probably didn‘t even pick up his voice.

 

He tries to convince himself that it‘s for the better.

 

Then, a beat later: „Yes, Agent Shimada?“.

 

„Could you… keep talking?“.

 

He hates himself for it, for how pathetic he sounds.

 

„What about?“.

 

It doesn‘t matter now. Without a voice to cling to, he‘ll drown in that silence. „Just keep talking… please...“.

 

„Of course.“.

 

.

 

How he dragged himself out of bed the next morning, Hanzo will never really find out, but once he‘s moving, it gets easier to _keep_  moving. He likes to be the first down at the training range in the morning, to warm up in peace and practice his shooting without distractions, and accordingly makes his way there at around seven, to find that someone else had the same thought.

 

And not just anyone else. The same woman he had managed to offend yesterday. Vaswani seems to be engaged in her own warm-up, a series of forms that flow into each other as fluidly as dancing. If she has noticed his entrance, she gives no sign of it, and after a moment of hesitation, Hanzo walks past her to a position almost at the opposite end of the range. He starts his workout with breathing exercises- normally a surefire way to center and calm him, today, a lesson in futility. Last night‘s events, his shameful breakdown, and the architech‘s presence in what he has come to consider his own personal space at this time of the day, all work together to set him off-kilter. It‘s like an itch inside his head and a weight sitting at his neck. No matter what he does, he can‘t get rid of either; after a frustrating ten minutes of trying to collect himself, he gives up and proceeds straight to his _kata_.

 

Those are even worse. His movements feel stiff to him, wooden and clunky. And if that wasn‘t enough to set his teeth on edge, suddenly Vaswani is right in front of him as he comes out of a form that he hasn‘t performed this badly since he was three, watching as he misses his footing at the end and stumbles.

 

He feels he can be excused for snapping at her after that.

 

„What?!“.

 

He may have been hoping for her to snap back. Maybe. Just a little.

 

She disappoints him.

 

„I have given some thought to what you said to me yesterday.“. No greeting, no preamble, and certainly not the words he was expecting to hear. Hanzo realizes he‘s gaping and closes his mouth. „You were right. It makes sense for everyone to know about my condition, lest it become a liability. I will inform them as soon as it is convenient.“.

 

„That… is good.“. It‘s all he can think of to say.

 

A beat passes, then another, both of them waiting for the other one to say or do something, both realizing this at the same time, with Hanzo starting to turn away, Vaswani taking a small step forward. „Would you like to spar with me?“.

 

Hanzo stops. Hesitates. Again, that was not what he was expecting; he would have thought the young woman would try and avoid him after the scene yesterday, yet here she is. Not only admitting that he was right, but asking him to train together. He‘s not sure what to say.

 

A small frown of uncertainty creeps onto the architech‘s face the longer he takes to answer. „Was that… an unreasonable request? I apologize if that is the case, I… misread… situations sometimes.“. Vaswani falls silent, fiddling with a tiny strand of hair that has escaped her strict and practical bun. Hanzo gives himself an inward shake. There‘s really nothing speaking against it; in fact, a sparring session might help clear his mind.

 

„It isn‘t. I would… welcome that.“. By the gods, he sounds like an awkward schoolboy. Just to escape this situation, he abruptly turns and starts heading over to the mats set up for hand-to-hand training. After a second, he hears Vaswani‘s steps following him.

 

They get into position, Hanzo feeling no less clunky than before, but finding himself increasingly eager to get the measure of Vishkar‘s prized spy. Though he suspects that that may have more to do with her abilities where shaping hardlight is concerned, and less with her prowess in combat.

 

If he thought that he might have to go easy on the younger woman, however, he is disabused of that notion within the first three minutes of their match. Not only does her fluid fighting style, so clearly related to the dance-like forms she was doing earlier, make it hard for him to predict her moves, she‘s also absolutely ruthless, giving no quarter and expecting none in turn. Far sooner than he‘d like, he‘s breathing hard as he deflects, ducks and rolls out of range of the architech‘s kicks and punches. The fact that he‘s just spent a rather rough night doesn‘t do him any favors, certainly, but much as he‘s tempted to blame his poor performance on the lack of sleep, he knows that isn‘t entirely true. He‘s had to run on little to no sleep before this, and never did as abysmally as he‘s doing right now.

 

Put quite simply, he grossly underestimated her, and is now getting his just punishment for that.

 

That thought only serves to trigger the stubborn part of him: damned if he‘s going to go down that easily. On her next strike, he pulls a move straight out of Genji‘s Book of Dirty Maneuvers, ducking beneath her arm, hooking his own around one of her thighs and pulling her off balance. She rolls with it, back on her feet within a second and ready for him rushing her-- but the ground‘s been evened somewhat. Vaswani struggles, and Hanzo is not inclined to let her gain the upper hand again. He surprises himself with the savage grin he can feel on his own face. For the first time since yesterday evening, he can breathe freely.

 

That only takes away part of the sting when Vaswani puts him on his back, after all, following up with an elbow to the solar plexus that would have knocked all the air out of his lungs had she been in earnest. Well, what‘s left of it after hitting the mat hard enough to see stars from when his head bounced off it. At least they‘re both breathing hard now.

 

Vaswani steps back from him and starts smoothing out the wrinkles in her combat suit and re-tying her hair from where it had fallen out of its tight bun. Hanzo decides he‘ll get up in his own good time.

 

And someone over by the door starts clapping.

 

Hanzo groans softly. Of course someone would come down just in time to witness his defeat. He risks a look and groans again. There in the door stands the diminutive form of Song, and peeking over the pilot‘s shoulder are Brigitte, Oxton, and his own beloved brother, who‘s wearing the most shit-eating grin Hanzo has _ever_  seen on him, which really says a lot.

 

„Now that was a sight I‘ll cherish `til my dying day. Athena, please tell me you‘ve got that on video?“, his absolute _bastard_  of a brother asks of the empty air.

 

„You know that I do not take video sequences of training sessions unless explicitly ordered to.“, the A.I. answers. Genji sags a little. Hanzo, who knew that, still sighs a small sigh of relief.

 

„Oh well, at least I‘ve still got the memory of you getting pummelled into the mat, _aniki_. And was that one of _my_  moves I saw you pull there?“. Hanzo glares at his brother even as he lets himself be pulled back to his feet, gets a snicker and a hand clapped on his shoulder. Then Genji moves on, having just been called over by Oxton, who‘s clamoring for a rematch.

 

„You mean the rematch of the rematch of the rematch of the….?“, Genji laughs and deflects her elbow aimed at his side. They‘re still bickering even as they start to spar.

 

„Just for the record, I think that was badass.“. Song has appeared at Hanzo‘s side, holding up her phone to show him a picture she‘s taken of the fight, of the exact moment when he‘d swept Vaswani off her feet. Her surprise is clearly visible on her face, and Hanzo finds he has to bite back a smile. Then he remembers himself. This match really was nothing to brag about. „It was pathetic.“.

 

„Alllright, well, if that was you being pathetic, I‘d hate to go against you if you‘re being _good_. Hey, could you teach me a bit? I mean, I‘m a pretty good shot and the best MEKA pilot out there, but my hand-to-hand could use some work- no? Ok, just gonna ask your brother then, I guess.“. Song shrugs lightly at Hanzo‘s irritated look and ambles off, swiping away on her phone, which she then tucks it into her suit before jogging over to her eye-wateringly pink mech and clambering inside.

 

Hanzo is left to stare after her and wonder what just happened.

 

She can‘t know. That means Brigitte hasn‘t told her. He‘s not sure if he should be grateful for that or not, because then the revelation is yet to come- and all that entails.

 

The idea that she might know and still have chosen not to judge him for it pops up, to be wiped away immediately. No one who knows about his crime could look at him and not see an abomination.

 

Right then, McCree calls every one to order and Hanzo‘s wondering is postponed. Vaswani is standing next to the cowboy, about to deliver on her promise, no doubt, but all Hanzo can focus on is how _close_  they are. 

 

He turns away, scolding himself for being ridiculous, tries to distract himself with a short look at his- new- phone, and upon finding that Song has sent the picture on to him, can't help but smile, after all. 

.

 

The training goes as well as can be expected for a team that has just gained four new members, one of whom pilots an enormous mech. Genji immediately discovered how that could be used for stunts, which surprised exactly no one. Amari and Morrison formed a team-within-the-team, working seamlessly together and not quite as seamlessly with the others. Morrison, especially, seemed to have some trouble adjusting to taking orders from McCree, to Genji‘s not-inconsiderable amusement. The old-Overwatch members kept up a constant stream of bickering, flirting, and inside jokes, all while shooting at each other in various group combinations. (He‘s really wondering about Amari and Wilhelm now.)

 

Vaswani, while certainly a force to be reckoned with and a valuable asset thanks to her hardlight tech, was completely unused to having to coordinate with others, and ended up having a shouting match with Torbjörn when one of her hardlight creations accidentally destroyed one of his turrets. It took Wilhelm to separate, and Zenyatta to calm them down, all while Song and Oxton watched from the sidelines, sharing a packet of potato chips.

 

Later, it turned out that Song had filmed the whole altercation. Only timely intervention prevented her from putting the video online, after which McCree dragged her off for a special lecture on the meaning of the words `covert ops`.

 

All in all, it was enough to leave Hanzo with a hangar-sized headache and only one wish, namely, that of going to sleep.

 

He slips out as soon as the training is concluded and heads for his room, where he showers and curls up on the bed with the driest book he could find on his tablet in the hopes of boring himself to sleep with the help of literature. It‘s just past midday and he should probably eat something, but the whole team will be down at the kitchen right now and he can‘t face them anymore today. He‘s had his fill of loud, boisterous banter for a week.

 

But the quiet loneliness of his room feels as stifling, if not more so, and his headache only worsens despite the two pills of painkillers he took earlier. Before long, it‘s a full-fledged migraine, head pounding, nausea churning in his gut. He barely makes it to the toilet before retching, but since there‘s nothing in his stomach to retch up, it doesn‘t make much of a difference.

 

Then there‘s just the agony in his head and a numbing cold all through his body and a feminine voice somewhere overhead. And more voices; he hears someone yell, „ _Aniki_!“, and thinks, strange, that sounded like Genji--

 

\--but it can‘t have been Genji, because his brother is dead…


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some discussion of mental health issues in here, mentions of medication for the same, and of course aaaangst. Also some fluff and cuddles and family bonding ;)

This... is not his room. It feels too big; it smells wrong, somehow chemical, and the sounds surrounding him are unfamiliar. A low, but insistent beeping somewhere close by is chewing on his nerves the way an untrained puppy might chew a slipper. It irritates him into opening his eyes, squinting against the sunlight coming in through the window. Noon sunlight, he can tell by the angle at which it streams into the medbay-- the medbay. Why on earth would he be here? Hooked up to a heart monitor and with an IV needle in his arm, as a quick check confirms. Did he get injured on a mission? But he can't remember going on a mission... he can't remember much of anything right now. His head feels heavy and light at the same time, muzzy thoughts tangling up in themselves, not getting anywhere, and he's tired... so tired...

 

He _remembers_  feeling tired. And cold, hard tiles underneath him, hard metal hands grasping at him, a panicked voice, Genji's voice- no, no that can't be right--

 

He jerks upright, braces against the wave of dizziness that is his body complaining about the sudden change in posture, tangles fingers in his hair, tries to sift through the muddled heap of memories and put them in a kind of order. Killing Genji, running from his clan, the ten years alone, only brushing the world of people every once in a while, his yearly vigil and Genji, miracoulously alive. Overwatch. McCree. New members... important mission... slowly, everything resolves itself into a coherent picture. He still can't account for what happened to put him here, but having the rest back is a massive relief.

 

He rubs his hands across his face and through his hair, grimacing at the tangles he finds there. Then steps approach the medbay door from outside, which slides open a moment later to reveal the neat figure of Dr. Angela Ziegler. Hanzo is suddenly very glad that she didn't get here a moment earlier.

 

"Well, good morning.". She stops right next to him, too close, and Hanzo bristles at this blatant intrusion into his personal space. "How are you feeling?".

 

A good question. Hanzo hesitates for a moment, then settles on, "Confused.".

 

"You don't remember what happened?". Ziegler is busying herself pulling up holoscreens from her tablet. She frowns at the diagrams, and then him, in turn.

 

"No. Fragments.".

 

"You had a breakdown. Likely caused by an anxiety attack or something similar... which, Athena informs me, wasn't your first one...".

 

Hanzo takes a second to wish that Athena had a physical neck so that he might strangle her. Ziegler's pointed look demands a reply, however, and after a second more, he reluctantly admits, "... no. It wasn't.".

 

That small sound from the doctor might have been a sigh, he's not quite sure. "Can you tell me what brought it on?", she goes on to ask.

 

Maybe he could, but he's not going to. He shakes his head.

 

It is definitely a sigh this time. "Alright. Well, two things. One, your brother is furious, you had better prepare yourself for a thorough chewing-out as soon as he gets back from training-",

 

"What training?", Hanzo interrupts her, frowning. That was in the morning, and it's finished already...

 

"Today's.", Ziegler informs him with that damnably calm voice she has, looking at him with that damnably calm look, and leaving him to draw his own conclusion.

 

"You're telling me I lost an entire _day_?!".

 

"You needed the sleep.". As if that was any kind of explanation. Hanzo buries his face in his hands again, not sure if he's more embarrassed or angry.

 

A _day_.

 

Above him, the doctor goes on talking. "Matter number two, I have consulted with a colleague of mine from the psychological faculty, and we've come up with a possible course of medication for you-",

 

" _That you're going ta take!_ ". McCree's voice cuts in with the kind of timing that makes Hanzo think he must have been waiting in the door for this exact moment, nipping the protest Hanzo was just lining up in the bud. He simmers down, glaring at the gunslinger as he makes his way into the bay with his thumbs hooked behind his belt and every sign of being his usual relaxed self- except for the eyes, two hot coals of barely banked fury threatening to burn holes in his skin. For a moment, Hanzo thinks he can see a glimmer of red in one of them, feels his dragons twist under his skin, and then it's gone.

 

"And you just decided that over my head?", he grits out.

 

"Yep. Totally did.". McCree takes up Ziegler's place next to Hanzo's bed, crossing his arms and still looking deceptively calm. The way he looms over him is somehow worse than earlier with the doctor- who has turned her back on the two of them and pretends not to be listening- not only because he's physically taller and broader, and not just because of the way he always seems to fill every available space with his presence. Those play a part, certainly- but what's mostly responsible for Hanzo going as tense as his own bowstring are the memories so firmly associated with McCree's closeness, most of them painful after everything that happened.

 

(And yet, a part of Hanzo that insists on tormenting him wishes he would come closer still.)

 

"`cuz ya really need someone ta give ya a good, ole-fashioned kick in the ass. Now, before ya open that mouth, remind yaself of just who tore into Satya not too long ago for keepin' her condition a secret, on the grounds that it might endanger the team...?". Hanzo doesn't answer, as a response hardly seems to be required. "And now I'm findin' out that this same person's had two breakdowns in as many days an' told the team jack shit about it, _and_  refuses to be put on a medication to fuckin' _help him keep his stubborn ass from goin' off the deep end!_ ".

 

Hanzo has faced down a lot of angry people, one of the most terrifying of whom was his own father, yelling at him, without flinching.

 

He flinches now.

 

For one frozen moment, the two men stare at each other, the outbreak seemingly having surprised the gunslinger as much as it did Hanzo. It's utterly uncharacteristic, and it has Hanzo's hackles up and him snarling back as soon as the shock wears off. "Big words for a man who ran away from the team he's supposedly leading to drunkenly mope in an alley!".

 

McCree looks almost ready to break his jaw for a second. Hanzo is hoping that he'll try; his fingers are itching to curl into fists and show this ridiculous cattle-herd cosplayer exactly what he thinks about the whole situation.

 

Just like Vaswani, the cowboy doesn't seem to want to give him the satisfaction. He takes a deep breath and then, despite the anger still flickering in his eyes, answers in a nearly-reasonable tone, "Yeah, ya right. Shouldn'ta done that. But ya know what? While I was out there runnin' from everythin', someone turned up ready ta help me, and I let that guy get me back on track, an' now here I am.". With every word, McCree's voice gets calmer. Now, he sounds almost soft.

 

The yelling was a lot easier to handle.

 

It's even worse when he comes to sit down on the edge of the bed. For one delirious moment, Hanzo thinks he's going to reach out and take his hand. His breath stutters at the thought.

 

It's a bitter, painful kind of relief that he does not.

 

"Look, Hanzo... this ain't against ya. We're tryna help you here, because, don't get me wrong, ya really _need_  help. All you gotta do is let us.".

 

Damn the man for sounding so reasonable, making Hanzo feel like a stubborn child being contrary just for contrariness' sake. "I don't-", he starts, is cut off by McCree holding up his hand.

 

"Wait, let me do that for ya. Ya don't deserve it. Ya not worthy. Yer a shit person...", he ticks the points off on his fingers and has the audacity to _grin_ when Hanzo's glare redoubles. "What? Ya only got the one track, and believe me when I tell ya, we all know it by heart by now. Now you lemme ask ya somethin': Would a shit person, I mean a real, genuine shitty guy, beat himself up over what he did the way ya do?".

 

Hanzo has no answer immediately ready for that, because it is an angle he never even considered, a thought he couldn't even have conceived. It's like seeing double: On one side, his own vision of himself, painted in the blood of his brother; on the other, an idea of what McCree might be seeing, of a man with blood on his hands, who is yet, despite everything, capable of turning towards the light.

 

He's vaguely aware, from the corner of his eye, of Ziegler's head whipping around toward the heart monitor, that he's still on but has forgotten about until now, as the beeping increases in frequency, of McCree sitting unmoving, watching him as if any sort of movement might startle him into fleeing. Inwardly, he takes that foreign picture, examines it, turns it this way and that. Feels the freedom it could give him, the relief, to accept it inside himself... and at the same moment, rejects it forcefully, drops it as if he's picked up a snake on accident and just now discovered that this beautiful thing might have poisoned teeth.

 

No. He's not that, can never be that, and to believe so would be just to hurt himself worse in the end. When he fails. Yet again.

 

"You have _no_  idea.", he grinds out, talking to the blanket covering his legs because looking up is just too hard. He doesn't have to to feel the disappointment radiating off of McCree. It makes him feel like he's failed a test, something he hates and has always hated, as far back as he can remember.

 

"Not sayin' ya ain't still an asshole,", McCree drawls, tone deadpan, "But I've seen that there's more to ya than that. Wouldn't bother otherwise.". He doesn't even try to soften the words. Someone other than Hanzo might have been bothered by that, to him, it is a snippet of familiarity in an otherwise thoroughly unsettling conversation. Pragmaticism he can understand.

 

That doesn't mean he can help trying to get the last word in.

 

"And surely you're never wrong.", he points out in a low voice.

 

"Never said that. But in this case? Only if ya set out ta prove me wrong.". Hanzo can clearly hear the warning there, the _and if you do prove me wrong, you'll wish you hadn't_  in-between the lines.

 

Not that he needs it. He knows what kind of a man McCree is, down deep where it really counts.

 

So, he relents. It is something happening almost exclusively on the inside of him, but McCree senses it with the same certainty that Hanzo sensed just how deadly serious he was, making that threat. He leans in, briefly squeezes Hanzo's shoulder (he has to stop himself from reaching up, touching his hand), and leaves with a hat-tip toward Dr. Ziegler.

 

Hanzo is left feeling irritated and put-out. Having decisions made for him does not sit well with him, but he also does know better than to test McCree. Or Dr. Ziegler, for that matter, who swoops down on him in that moment to run some last scans and relieve him of the equipment he is still hooked up to.

 

"I should have your medication ready by tomorrow, if you need anything before then, don't hesitate to tell me. And if I find out that you have had another episode and didn't tell me, I will personally rip you a new one. With anatomical exactitude.".

 

Hanzo snorts and stops glowering moodily at the floor for a moment in favor of looking at her. "You might have to get in line.".

 

And for the first time since he has known her, Ziegler huffs a laugh and cocks an eyebrow at him in wry amusement. "There's an old German saying: _Selbst schuld, kein Mitleid._  Now, out you get, no doubt your brother is waiting for you.". She shoos him off, and Hanzo barely makes it three corridors before running into that selfsame brother.

 

It is even worse than he thought it would be. Genji doesn't just chew him out; first, he hugs him so tight that Hanzo is certain he's going to have bruises from all his hard metal plates, -then- he chews him out, and after he's finished with that, he drags him down to the kitchen on pain of telling everyone on base the story of Hanzo's first ill-fated crush, to get some food into him. Self-cooked, no less. Hanzo submits with ill grace and a tight feeling in his throat, flees at the first opportunity, then finds that his room still feels as stifling as it did yesterday. He dresses quickly, retreats to the shooting range and spends the next few hours training to make up for the missed team practice. The concentration required quietens his thoughts, the satisfaction that comes from beating Athena's programmes soothes his bruised pride at least a bit. If the meddlesome A.I. had not threatened him with snitching on him to McCree, he would have gone on well into the night. As it is, he has no choice but to pack up his bow and leave when evening comes around.

 

It is the same routine in reverse; first shower and change, then head down to the kitchen, where he braves his teammates' confused or concerned looks by ignoring them. The unwarranted attention makes his skin crawl, but the thought of retreating somewhere where he'll be entirely alone holds little appeal, for once.

 

He compromises by tucking himself into the oldest armchair in the rec room, the one that has been shoved into a corner because it is frankly uncomfortable and no one wants to sit in it. Nose buried in his tablet, no one bothers him, and he can let the mild bustle of human activity wash over him without having to take part in it. He did not know how evenings in the Watchpoint usually went, having preferred his solitude up until now. As it turns out, the rec room seems to be the meeting place of choice for whomever does not have anything else to do. Surprisingly, he finds Lindholm jr. and Vaswani quietly talking shop in one corner, where they are later joined by Dr. Zhou who sits listening to them and occasionally offering up a few words. The couch sees a somewhat more lively time, with Song, Oxton, and Genji all caught up in a fierce racing game-match, cussing and laughing. Hanzo finds himself watching them, his lips curling into a slight smile every time Song beats his brother, and snorting at the resulting dramatics enacted by the cyborg, including pretend-sobbing into Dr. Ziegler's lap, who pets him, crooning, " _Och, mein_  armer  _S_ _patz!_ ", with complete and utter insincerity.

 

Something about the sight makes his chest tighten around an unnamed ache.

 

McCree passes through sometime later, with a tall, dark-haired younger woman in tow who he introduces as Fareeha Amari. To the four people in the room who did not yet know her, at least; the others sweep her up in a clamor of greetings and 'welcome back's. When Genji pulls her into a one-armed hug, she visibly balks, looks him over and narrows her eyes at him. "Okay, who are you and what have you done to Genji?!".

 

That, of course, prompts the retelling of Genji's redemption story. Hanzo feels himself shrink into his seat a little more with every word; he doesn't even pretend to be reading anymore. Amari is watching him unabashedly throughout the whole, her look as piercing as her mother's, and when the story is finished, she gets up and stands right in front of him in an almost eery mirror image of McCree earlier this day.

 

"Well. I always thought that if I ever met you, I'd punch you through a wall; but if Genji's really forgiven you, I guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt. Don't disappoint me.". She holds out her hand and nearly crushes Hanzo's in it when he returns the gesture.

 

He feels McCree's eyes on him the entire time, but the gunslinger's face is unreadable.

 

So he takes refuge in Terry Pratchett again.

 

A little later, Vaswani and Zhou leave for their rooms, then Dr. Ziegler drags off Genji amidst a few whistles. McCree excuses himself, as well, but the four women left seem to settle in. Soft drinks, snacks and a few cans of beer make an appearance, anecdotes of the old Overwatch are retold, notes compared, stories about heroic feats swapped. Hanzo finally finds out that the name Fareeha Amari sounded familiar because she is Helix' youngest captain; at least that small puzzle has now been solved.

 

Two hours later, that last gathering breaks up, too, and Hanzo is faced with the decision of staying here alone or braving his room. He tries the latter and ends up back where he started, defeated. For the first time, he admits to himself that having something to help him in moments like these might not even be such a bad idea.

 

He's dozing on the couch, TV turned on for some background noise, when he hears someone shuffle by outside. Whoever it is stops in the door, probably regarding him; he doesn't turn round to look. Then they move on, returning a short time later. A mug makes its appearance over his head, followed by Song's slightly dishevelled head. "Want some?".

 

"Some what?".

 

"Cocoa.".

 

Hanzo sits up so he won't spill the hot beverage over himself before accepting the mug. Song climbs over the back of the couch and insinuates herself into the seat next to him. She's wearing pajamas and bunny slippers, the hair at the back of her head a tangle that tells a tale of turning around on the pillow trying to go to sleep before giving it up as hopeless. Hanzo finds himself wanting to comb it out with his fingers.

 

"What're you still doing here?", Song asks between blowing on her cocoa to cool it and experimentally sipping at it.

 

There's nothing Hanzo can say that doesn't make him sound pathetic, so he keeps quiet, cradling his mug. Song doesn't pry; for some reason, it's exactly that which finally draws the words from him. "I... cannot stay in my room right now.".

 

"That got something to do with what happened yesterday?".

 

He scoffs, bitterly. "Does everyone know about that?".

 

"Not in detail. Just that you went off on a funk and that it must've been pretty bad.". The girl shrugs and Hanzo scoffs again. "I guess you could call it that.".

 

"It's what we called it back home.". At Hanzo's odd look, she lifts an eyebrow. "What? Think you're the only one? Had someone go off after pretty much every fight in my old team, bet it's not that different here.".

 

The nonchalant way she's talking about mental breakdowns piques a part of Hanzo into anger. "You're children. How on earth does your government justify letting children fight their fights for them?".

 

"We're the best.". She sounds as if that should be obvious. It isn't to Hanzo. "How on earth does anyone justify having a guy kill his own brother?".

 

He goes still, inside and out.

 

"So you do know...", he manages, after a minute.

 

"Genji told us, Satya and me. Right away, probably trying to get it out of the way.".

 

Oh.

 

"And yet....?".

 

"Hmmm?".

 

Hanzo doesn't know what to say so he just gestures. At them, the couch, the mugs in their hands. Song tilts her head at him, her eyes narrow and clever.

 

"You mean why am I not giving you shit?", she asks bluntly. "Not judging you `til I don't know for sure that I wouldn't have done the same.".

 

"You wouldn't have.". He is one hundred percent convinced of that. Someone else would have found a way that wouldn't have involved attacking their own brother. Hanzo had snapped.

 

Song makes a noncomittal noise in her throat. "Besides, blame never helped make anything better. Your brother said to trust you, so that's what I'm doing. Unless and until you give me a reason not to.".

 

Hanzo bows his head, closing his eyes, swallows against the lump in his throat.

 

A warm weight settles against his shoulder. Fingertips brush his wrist. He looks to find Song nestled against him, running a finger over the sliver of his tattoo that isn't covered by his sleeve. "That looks _so_  cool.", she murmurs, admiringly.

 

"I suppose. I don't really see it anymore.". His voice sounds a bit rough, but it's steady. He's thankful for that.

 

"Whaaat? Then you should look at it more often! And you can really summon a _dragon_  from it?". Her eyes are wide and bright as she looks at him. As they should be. Hanzo caves.

 

"Simply put, yes.". He reaches out to slide his fingers into her hair, straightening out the tangles there.

 

Song sighs happily. " _Cool_! Can you show me?".

 

"What, right now?".

 

"Later. Tomorrow.".

 

"They're not toys to be shown off. You'll see them soon enough.", he chides softly. The girl pouts at him and Hanzo laughs, surprising himself.

 

"Spoilsport. Hey, you gonna drink that?". She grabs at his mug and he pulls it out of reach with the kind of reflex born of having a younger sibling. "I am, in fact.".

 

"Pfft.". She leans into him again, and by this time there's nothing strange about it anymore. Hanzo smiles and finishes off his cocoa. He feels oddly light inside, and only after the first sob tears its way out his throat does he notice he's crying. Song takes the mug out of his hands and puts it on the coffee table, curls back up against him and takes his left hand in both of hers. She's simply there, silent and warm against his left side, and for all that he should feel ashamed at weeping onto a young girl's shoulder, he finds he can't care.

 

Just for _once_ , he doesn't want to carry his own weight.

 

It doesn't miraculously solve everything. It doesn't even take particularly long for him to regain control. Still, he breathes a little freer, congested nose and all. Looking at Song, he finds tear tracks on her own face, and she smiles even through her sniffles, wiping at her eyes. "Fucking mirror neurons, I swear...".

 

They share an embarrassed chuckle and a packet of tissues someone left on the coffee table, and after some cold water in the face and drying off with a kitchen towel, Hanzo almost feels human again. It's past two in the morning by then, Song is yawning and looking ready to drop out of the chair she plopped down on.

 

"Time for bed, young lady.".

 

She groans and holds out her arms to him. "Carry me?".

 

"You have a perfectly functioning pair of legs. Use them.".

 

"You're a hardass.". She's not moving an inch. Before long, Hanzo relents and picks her up. He has to shake her awake to enter the security code for her room and when trying to put her down on the bed, is unable to make her let go- every time he removes an arm from around his neck, the other snakes around him and holds tight. "Stay 'ere....".

 

"Song, please... this is hardly appropriate.". He sighs as she hugs him around the middle, clinging like a human barnacle.

 

"Mmfff... as if. 'm perfectly safe with you. An' it's Hana.".

 

"Alright. Hana. Now let...."- "Nope.".

 

"You're a pest.".

 

She just smiles.

 

" _Kami-sama_. Move over then.".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I didn't misspell 'Schatz'. 'Spatz' means 'sparrow', and it's also a rather common term of endearment.


End file.
